


Not a date

by i_gaze_at_scully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drunken Flirting, Early MSR, Pre-Relationship, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 23:44:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18271514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: Mulder and Scully don't go on a date.





	Not a date

**Author's Note:**

> Set in some early season when their shoulders were unencumbered by the weight of all the worlds.

To Mulder’s surprise, it’s an automatic, unthinking, enthusiastic  _ yes _ from Scully when he asks if she wants to grab a beer after they wrap up at the station. Arkansas in the dead of summer, her hair comprised more of flyaways than anything else, the back of neck a near waterfall, and eleven hours in a two-room airconditionerless station.  _ Yes.  _

 

They pull up to Brady’s in their rental car, a pair of fish out of water in this very, very local establishment. But Scully could care less. She needs something cold in her hand stat.

 

Two seats down at the far end of the bar, light from the door hitting everywhere but. Only murmurs and the click of pool balls bouncing around the table, the stacking of glasses behind the bar. It’s perfect. When the bartender nods their way and Mulder asks for their beers, Scully smiles for the first time in eleven hours. 

 

Mulder’s suit jacket was gone before they even sat down. He loosened his tie before they ordered, and his sleeves were rolled up before his first sip. At least she could wear a suit and hose. 

 

“To getting out of the heat soon.” He lifts his glass to hers and she drinks. The first sip - gulp, if she’s being honest - is heaven. An embarrassing sigh escape her lips, and as she’s mentally chastising herself ( _ it’s just a beer, Dana) _ , Mulder laughs.

 

“Easy there, champ, we have all night.” There’s a lightness to him here that she likes, a looseness that she can feel massaging the tightly packed coils in her back, her neck. He’s right; they’re in no rush, under no microscope. Free from pressure and police officers and prying eyes. She nods and takes the tiniest of sips demonstratively, earning another chuckle. “Better,” he says, and downs half his beer.

\---

 

They’re four in. Five? No, four. The third one didn’t count for some reason… because… because…..

 

“Because we used them for a chugging contest,” Mulder supplies, and Scully realizes she’s been talking out loud.

 

“That was silly,” she remarks, a giggle or a burp building up behind her words. It was a giggle, though at this point she wouldn’t be embarrassed if it had been a burp. She’s relaxed, an unfamiliar but most welcome feeling. It’s nice.

 

“This is nice,” she says aloud (on purpose), her feet swinging as they dangle off the stool. “I haven’t gone out in a long time.” It’s true, but part of her regrets saying it. It’s not his fault, but she knows he thinks it is. “I mean….” 

 

There’s a flash of something across his face, and then it’s gone and he’s all shiteating grins and wandering fingers - specifically wandering to poke alternatingly at her hand wrapped around her beer and her forearm as it rests on the bar.

 

“Are we on a date right now?” He’s swiveling on his chair and faux swooning, pursing his lips in the most ridiculous way. With a chortle, she bats his hands away.

 

“No.” She drags it out, as though letting a toddler down, and lets him pout about it. “We are not.”

 

“Fine,” he says with a shrug. “Your loss.” He maintains eye contact, suave as ever, as he misses his mouth and spills beer down his shirt. Scully snorts.

\---

 

It’s late when they leave. It was for the best, they determined, to walk off some of the drunk before driving back to the motel. Less chance they’d order more beer, more chance they’d actually sober up. It’s a one stoplight town, and they walk up and down the only road. Up and down, pointing out faulty street lamps and old, old cars. Bumping shoulders as their paths parallel and intersect, parallel and intersect. It’s perfectly quiet in the way only a summer night in a town like this can be. 

 

“Are we on a date  _ now? _ ” It’s not as funny this time, but still light. She doesn’t even turn her head, just arches an eyebrow in his direction and smirks a bit. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him smile. Another shoulder bump.

 

“Why not?” He asks, and there’s a whine to it that catches her attention. “Pray tell, doctor Scully, for the betterment of science and bachelors the world over: what constitutes a date?”

 

She sighs, darts her tongue out over her lips as she thinks. 

 

“Well, it’s a social engagement with another person, someone you find interesting––” 

 

“You’ve clearly never been on a blind date,” he interjects, and she crosses her arms. “Alright, go on, go on.”

 

“--Someone you’re interested  _ in,  _ then.” She pauses, unsure how to qualify that. He gives her the time, but when she doesn’t continue, he doesn’t let her off the hook.

 

“Interested in how exactly?” She rolls her neck back and forth, weighing the options. “For science,” he clarifies, and she chuffs out a laugh.

 

“For science. Interested in romantically, I suppose.” He nods in her periphery. “It doesn’t have to be anywhere in particular. It depends on the people, the circumstances.” She’s talking to empty air, rambling as she grasps for the right words with no feedback from him. “But there should be a… spark.”

 

“Is that the scientific term for it?” They’ve slowed their gaits, their steps in time, their hands shoved firmly away; his in his pockets, hers under her arms.

 

“A spark, connection, click, attraction,” she lists, her voice lowering a bit on the last word. “A date, a good date that is, should have that.”

 

He hums and nods slowly, like he’s tasting her words, letting the flavors marinate on his tongue. Above them, a street lamp bulb flickers wildly, struggling to hang on, before sputtering out, engulfing their little island in darkness. Instinctively, they both stop.

 

“So, not a date then,” he asserts, turning towards her. It’s cooler at night, cooler as she sobers up and realizes she left her blazer in the bar. But there’s a warmth that she feels in her stomach, her chest, and she thinks it might be coming right from that mischievous glimmer in his hazel eyes.

 

“Not a date,” she confirms with a small smile, and he mirrors it. They resume their trip synchronously, stepping back into the hazy light. 


End file.
